


Tomorrow, At Dawn

by iberiandoctor (jehane), Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, Emotionally Conflicted Sex, Identity Issues, M/M, Martingale, Tears, just so you know, this doesn't have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-09 17:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11109810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: It had been an uneasy night, the still air punctuated by the rattle of gunfire and distant screams. Richard did not think he had slept much before the early hours of the morning, and it had not been a good sleep. The morgue would be full today, and the bodies would be youths, like him, like his friends. If not for his job, the service he had pledged his life to, he could have been amongst them. God knew that he understood their reasons, even if he did not entirely agree with the shooting of guns to make a point.After the insurgency, the Paris Morgue counts the costs.





	1. Richard

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a beautiful poem by Victor Hugo - relevant quotes to appear, perhaps, if necessary

It was a devilishly cold morning, colder than any June day had the right to be. Richard woke with the light and the smell of bread from across the street. His bed, positioned beneath the window in his attic room, sat in a draught, but he did not immediately stir. Rather, he wrapped the blankets tighter around himself and listened. 

It had been an uneasy night, the still air punctuated by the rattle of gunfire and distant screams. Richard did not think he had slept much before the early hours of the morning, and it had not been a good sleep. The morgue would be full today, and the bodies would be youths, like him, like his friends. If not for his job, the service he had pledged his life to, he could have been amongst them. God knew that he understood their reasons, even if he did not entirely agree with the shooting of guns to make a point. He only hoped he did not know any of his new charges; Richard had never been much good at keeping a straight face.

When he heard the cries of the youngster on the corner, selling his newspapers, Richard dragged himself from bed. Madame had already left water for him outside the door, and if he dared to be late for breakfast he would never hear the end of her disapproving sighs. He washed begrudgingly; the water was barely warm but he never complained. He was shivering by the time he had finished but dressed quickly, managing to stave off the worst of the cold. 

Henning, the student who lived in the room below him, was already clattering down the stairs, and Richard rushed to join him before he got to the ground floor. He caught him on the first floor landing, hovering outside André ’s room. 

“Richard,” Henning started and tried to look as though he had not been waiting. “Good morning, my friend.”

“André ’s not here,” Richard said under his breath, “I’m sure he did not come back from the hospital last night.”

“Ah,” Henning cleared his throat and started down the stairs, “Come. Breakfast awaits.”

Richard was not entirely sure of the nature of Henning’s and André ’s friendship, other than the fact that Henning was devoted to his friend. They made a strange pair; the shy Prussian history student and the spirited young doctor, but seemed content in one another’s company.  
The other residents had already taken their places at the table, in various stages of their meals. Madame Martin sat at the head, sipping her coffee and eyeing her charges. To her left was Monsieur Bernard, the oldest resident and unofficial head of the family. To her right, André ’s place was empty and would remain so. No one dared move from the seat she assigned them to. Henning sat next to André ’s empty chair and Richard beside him. On the other side of the table, besides Monsieur Bernard, was Piers, an English man of perhaps thirty five years, who smiled often and spoke French with a heavy accent. Compared to his efforts, Henning’s carefully measured French was perfection, but Piers had always made an effort to be amiable and so none of them could complain truly about his lack of language. He was, by Richard’s judgement, improving every day. 

They made an odd picture, this little family, but in many ways it was no odder than any of the arrangements that Richard’s friends and colleagues lived in. A single man in Paris, who wished to maintain his reputation, had no choice but to live in a male-only boarding house. These were invariably run by widows of a certain age and nature, women capable of ruling their boarders with the firm hand that they believed the men needed. Richard could hardly blame Madame Martin for her diligence and her rules; he knew all too well what young men could do when blood ran hot. The barricades, the screams and the gunshots, were all too real an example of that. 

They ate in near silence, as usual, save for the rustle of Monsieur Bernard’s newspaper. Piers excused himself soon after, off to his work at the gallery. There was a tell-tale lump in his pocket, a concealed bread roll that he took from the table each morning right under Madame’s gaze. Richard had been unable to see how Madame, who saw everything, could possibly miss the cardinal sin of swiping food from the table, until he came to the conclusion that Piers, with his bumbling French and his smile, was the favourite. It had been André , until Henning came along. 

Monsieur Bernard cleared his throat and began to read from the newspaper.

“Seems there was only one barricade left by the end of last night,” he said, “Sources say that the students who held it were all killed.”

Richard could have likely guessed that without reading it in the news, given all the screaming last night. Henning hung his head, stirring his coffee with such intent that Richard had no doubt he was thinking of his friends and wondering which of them had survived the night. A week ago, Henning had brought home a pamphlet that he had been given and asked Richard to explain a word or two that he could not translate. It had been inflammatory stuff. He could not ask André , he said, because André did not understand. 

“Those poor boys,” Madame said, “Led astray, no doubt. God have mercy on them.”

“Please excuse me.” Richard pushed his chair back at the same time Henning did. “I must be going.”

“I, also,” Henning said. “Thank you for breakfast.”

Henning, his coat hanging besides the door, left immediately, before Richard could talk to him. He would be off to find his friends, for he had no engagements at the university this morning. For his own part, Richard ran up to his bedroom and collected his things. He threw on his coat and hat, put his bag over his shoulder and was back downstairs and out of the front door before Madame also realised that Henning had failed to stay and help her with the dishes, as was his habit on a Wednesday. 

Out on the street, away from the chill of the house, it was warmer, more like the June morning he had been expecting when he awoke that day. 

The Rue de la Harpe was a long road, usually lined with students and hospital workers even at the earliest of hours. It was not so on this day. So few people were out on the street that Richard thought for a moment that the curfew could not have been lifted, and he would be arrested at any moment. It was only when a trio of blue and red-garbed soldiers stalked past, guns held loosely in tired hands, that Richard began to relax.

The air was still, the roar of the river the only distant sound as the water rushed past on its way. No matter the day, no matter the horror, the Seine was unchanging, wending through the city with all the hurrying gait of a man on the run. Richard quite liked the water, the mischief of the thing, uncontrollable and yet so vital, like the heartbeat of every man in Paris. Whatever had happened the previous night, Richard knew the Seine would be waiting all the same. It was strangely comforting. 

At the end of the street, he had to cross the square. It was busier here, although the people were subdued still, tentative like people in the city never were. More soldiers paced the square, these ones sharp-eyed and watchful, guns cocked as though they expected trouble even now. Richard paused in the shelter of a shop at the edge of the square and tried to find familiar faces in the crowd, any of the students he had known to spend their days here.

He could find none.

The Café Musain had been a favourite spot for the revolutionaries, a place that Richard had almost been brave enough to visit once, back when he had almost dared to join them. He’d hovered outside, listening to the laughter, clutching a pamphlet he had been handed, and debating with himself if he believed enough to risk all he had; his home, his job, his life. If Madame Martin found out he had been to such a place, he would surely be cast out and bereft. If Monsieur Laurent got wind of his interest, he would be dismissed with no references and no hope of employment in Paris. In the end, he had turned away, had run from the students who might easily have persuaded him to die for their cause, as so many eventually had. Instead they were most likely gone and Richard would be the one to care for them, to ensure they were at least given the respect they deserved. He suspected that, left to Monsieur Laurent and some of his older colleagues, any insurgent would be treated little better than the criminals who came to them from the prison. Richard could give them this at least. It was the best he had to offer.

A small cluster of women stood outside the café, unmolested by the roving soldiers. Richard did not dare to go any closer, half out of fear and half because he did not belong there, intruding on their grief. He could hear them though, sobs that echoed through the still air and rent him in two. How many more people were weeping throughout the city? Too many. Too many to count and too many to comprehend.

“Fools, each and every one.”

Richard turned sharply to find André at his shoulder. His handsome face was grey, dark circles like bruises beneath his eyes. He too watched the café, nose wrinkled.

“Where were you? Henning was worried.”

André smiled and he looked a little more his usual self. He often did when thinking about his friend.

“Press-ganged into another shift,” he said, picking at the steaming bread roll he held wrapped in his handkerchief. “I dug out a lot of bullets last night.”

“From the fools?”

“And the soldiers they shot at,” André said carefully, voice low. “I cannot say how many of either will survive till the end of the day.”

André had always been a neutral voice whenever either of his fellow lodgers attempted to bring up the students and their cause. Henning often said he did not think André understood, being from a rich family, but Richard was not so sure. André had often seemed to him the most reckless man he had ever known, but he was also one of the cleverest. Recklessness could be tempered, if wit held it tightly by the hand.

“You disagree with the methods?” Richard glanced across the river to the morgue, as though Monsieur Laurent would be watching him from the window. “What of the cause?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think now.” André took a bite of his roll and spoke through the mouthful, “Take care of them today. I could not help them.”

Before Richard could say anything else, he was gone, had melted into the small crowd. No doubt he would slink home and beg Madame’s apologies for his absence at breakfast, and sleep through the day with little time lost over thinking on what he had seen. André was anything but a sentimental man. 

The morgue loomed on the riverbank as Richard crossed the Pont Saint Michel, a grey stone thing that stood out from the smaller buildings surrounding it, with its many windows like the eyes of a fat, lazy fly buzzing over the water. Richard had never liked the look of the place, but it was home here in Paris, as much a home as his draughty bedroom back at Madame’s house. He’d been suffering terribly with nerves on the day he presented himself for an interview, a boy from a small town who was the first in his family to go further than the next village. Richard’s father had spent all of his meagre savings to first send his son to school and then to Paris for the chance of a job in the largest morgue in the country. He was but an assistant, for now, but Monsieur Laurent had suggested that he had potential to progress, if he worked hard and did not cause trouble. Well, he had not joined the rebels, despite the song in his heart; if that was not staying out of trouble, he did not know what else he could do.

The morgue was no busier than usual, when he pushed through the door into the foyer. The inside of the building was far more pleasing to the eye than the outside, although still lacking somewhat in the sophistication that much of Paris enjoyed. It was functional and it was adequate, for a place that handled the deceased. Richard had half expected the place to be buzzing with activity, but aside from the doorman and the usual trickle of assistants, there was no one. 

He nodded to the doorman as he made his way through to the workrooms. The man yawned and waved him through; he would have been here all night, watching over the arrival of the new guests, and the set of his jaw, the greyness of his skin, suggested that it had been a difficult task. 

Richard was barely through the door before Monsieur Laurent appeared, trailing a small group of other assistants. He did not speak directly to Richard but took his elbow and pulled him along with the group. 

“Our priority is to catalogue before the hospital brings us any more,” he said, “Everything else can wait until we know who everyone is. Get them cleaned up and we can begin identification as soon as possible. The soldiers have all been accounted for so far, they will be a formality when their families come. The rebels will have to wait until someone comes to claim them so make sure we can see their faces. The quicker we get them out of here, the better. Any questions?”

“How many are there, monsieur?” Richard could not help himself. Monsieur Laurent was a callous man, callous to the point of cold, and his voice suggested that his heart had not been moved that morning.

“Enough,” Laurent said, dropping Richard’s arm and baring his teeth. “Too many. They’re cluttering up my morgue. Much like some of my workers are doing this morning, instead of getting to their tasks.”

Richard did not answer; he felt a red flush race up his neck and onto his cheeks and did not miss the hint of satisfaction in Monsieur Laurent’s eyes, but he did not speak. Instead he turned his back and followed Thomas, his partner, into their workroom. He pushed the door open and heard Thomas gasp. 

Richard did not think he had ever seen so much blood.


	2. Javert

He had long since sweated through the rough wool of his shirt and trousers, garments he had borrowed for his work and now truly regretted as they stuck to him and itched as though a thousand tiny insects crawled over his skin. Despite himself, Javert groaned as he shifted on the unforgiving table top, trying to find a position that did not make him ache so. 

“Finally, some sign that you are living yet!”

The boy they called Grantaire was at his side in an instant. Javert did not turn his head to see, but a bottle of wine clutched in a fist bobbed before him and he knew his companion as surely as if he was looking into his eyes.

“I had rather begun to think you were made of stone, Inspector,” Grantaire said. Javert flinched as a warm palm settled on his back. The boy chuckled, his voice as warm as his hand.

“Yes, here it is! There is breath in you, just like there is in me. I did not know monsters had such things!”

Javert bit into his lip but he did not speak. After a beat of silence, Grantaire laughed again, and there was the tell-tale glug of wine from a bottle. In the quiet of the café, the working of the boy’s throat was an obscene sound; worst of all, he had not removed his hand from Javert’s back. Indeed, he moved his fingertips in what was perhaps supposed to be a soothing motion, absurd as the idea might seem to Javert. It was not soothing. It was a gentle torture, perhaps the cruellest of all punishments these children had dealt to him so far. How dare this boy be kind?

There was a hitch in Javert’s breath that he could not stop, and the hand stilled.

“Forgive me, Inspector. How hot you are. Allow me.”

The hand moved quickly, catching Javert’s chin and twisting it upwards, pouring wine into his mouth. He swallowed before he could stop himself and then it was too late to protest. Grantaire was careful to stop before he choked, and then gave him another drink. It had been a long time since Javert had drunk such wine and the tang of it felt strange on his tongue, but he did not stop. The bottle emptied before Grantaire stepped away and picked up another. 

He looked over his shoulder as he went to step outside and, for the first time, Javert looked him in the eye. The boy looked not like a cruel victor at all, but looked so very young. Grantaire nodded and disappeared outside. 

The wine sat heavy on Javert’s stomach, and his face, that had been just hot, was now burning. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to move again, the knots of the ropes rubbing at his wrists and ankles. His head was twisted at an angle, cheek resting on the table top and ear pressed so hard to the wood that it hurt. 

The loop around his neck unforgivingly tight and it passed between his legs in the same manner, pulling flush around his cock whenever he tried to move an inch. The two strands trapped him, rubbing the wool of his trousers against him. He was hard, and his cock pressed against the wood of the table was the greatest agony of all. He was only grateful that the boy had not realised the true reason for his discomfort. He did think he could bear the shame of that. It would be bad enough when they finally tired of toying with him and hauled him out for execution. At least then the embrace of death would somewhat soften the ridicule. 

It had been an error to volunteer himself for this mission. He was too well known amongst these street rats and bleeding hearts; his was a face they had come to recognise and fear during his years in Paris. His own foolish pride had led him here, and now he would die at these hands, useless blood mixing with theirs and the filth of the gutter. In the end, Javert would die no better than he was on the day he was born. He only hoped it would happen before any of them could see his shameful state.

He tried to shift on the table without rocking his hips, but found he could not. He groaned and glanced around as best he could to see that he was still alone before rubbing himself once against the table. It did not provide the relief he had been hoping for, and he had to force himself to stop from doing it again. He would die with even less dignity if they found him rutting upon the table like an animal.

A cry went up from outside, a ragged cheer, and then quiet. Perhaps someone had come, a friend or other insurgent to bolster the numbers of rebels. It had not been a cry of defiance, so the soldiers had not moved. Javert had known garrisons in his time – all useless rabbles unless given a direct command, and totally unable to organise themselves. The garrison at Montreuil-sur-Mer had been the same, a group of layabouts who had grown lax in their duty. 

Monsieur Madeleine, of course, had been glad of them, as though some common soldier could do a better job of defending the town against criminals and policing the docks. Javert’s men had been efficient in their duties, every last one capable of guarding the vulnerable docks and the people and goods that passed through them. 

He had told Monsieur Madeleine this, more than once, and received a rebuff every time.

“They are here to help you, Inspector,” the mayor had said. “They are not a threat to your command. One day, perhaps, you will be glad of them.”

He never had been, but it had seemed that Monsieur Madeleine valued them too much. Of course, that could have been Jean Valjean’s thinking, the criminal buying the support of men who, for want of a different uniform, could have been him, men who might one day remember the debt that they owed him. 

Monsieur Madeleine! How often Javert had thought of him, the mask that had deceived him for so long that he was ashamed to think of it. He should have known, should he not, that Madeleine was a front, too good to be true. If Javert had seen through him immediately those many years ago, perhaps he would not have come to Paris and perhaps he would not die like this tied to a table, aching and furious and embarrassed.

 _But you did not see,_ whispered a treacherous voice; _you did not want to._

It was true, Madeleine had been a good mayor, if a little too soft on bad elements and too quick to forgive indiscretion. Crime had been reduced and business had been good and Javert – Javert had been dazzled. Too proud, of the town and how it had improved, too proud of the man who oversaw it and his, Javert’s own part in it. Valjean had known this, seen this weakness in him, and used it. 

Madeleine had been kind to him, often when he did not deserve it, and Javert had known so little kindness he had not known it for what it truly was. It had begun with a rosary, gifted to him on his first day in the town, a small thing of onyx that he kept tucked into the pocket of his uniform jacket as a token of his mayor’s faith in him. Then there had been the first invitation to dinner and another and another, until he could see nothing before him but Monsieur Madeleine and his hands and his smile and his soft voice, a voice that Javert could hear in his head at night as he lay tormented. He had not touched himself for years, not since he was a youngster unable to do anything except give himself comfort and relief. He had not wanted or needed to once he had grown into a man, but in Montreuil – Monsieur Madeleine had him trapped in his own skin, half desperate to touch and half desperate to save himself from such debauchery. 

The first time he had given in, roughly taking himself in hand and imagining, oh God, imagining the hand was Monsieur Madeleine’s, he had sobbed into his pillow from pure, burning rage. The next day, upon seeing the mayor, he had been so short and rude that it had been, ironically, the only time Madeleine had seen fit to chastise him.

Then, so help him God, Javert had touched himself again that night, and every so often, when Madeleine had been too kind or too understanding. And every time the rage and every time the sobbing that he was sure would be the end of him.

A shout and a shot rang out, and Javert jerked against the table, groaning. He wished now, as he had never wished before, for a quick death. It was a pain he had not known he could feel, an ache in body and soul, that there would be no recovering from.

There was a babble of voices at the door and a group of the rebels stumbled in unsteadily. With them was a man. A man dressed in the uniform of the National Guard, white-haired and broad-shouldered. Javert turned his head away, away from them all, damn them.

“The spy calls himself Javert,” the ringleader said; “A policeman.”

Javert did not hear the reply from the soldier but he heard the boy again, his voice clear and true, “Then he is yours, monsieur.”

He could only see the boots of the soldier before him, until the man grasped his chin and forced him to raise his head.

Javert thought he might faint, there and then.

_Jean Valjean._

The man was older, of course, grey head turned to white, more lines around his eyes and a more careworn look, but it was him. What devil had taken charge of Javert’s life on this night that Jean Valjean should be here to witness his weakness and his end?

“Watch yourself with him, monsieur,” one of the boys said. “He’s as strong as he looks and half wild with it.”

“I’ll be careful,” Valjean said, his accent a little rougher than the one he had used for Monsieur Madeleine, but still the tones of a gentleman. So, Javert had been correct: Valjean had been living in disguise since he disappeared, duping other people of good breeding into thinking he was one of their own. 

“He’s a policeman,” another voice added, “Little Gavroche recognised and knew him straightaway.”

Javert did not like being talked about as though he was not even there, but he also did not want to look Valjean in the eye. If he did, this would all be real. He twitched as warm hands went to the ropes around his neck, and his aching cock reminded him that it was real enough.

“Leave us,” Valjean said, a hand still resting on the rope. “I know this man, and we have unfinished business.”

The audience was docile, ironically, in the face of a command from an elder, and soon the only sound in the room was the scratch of rope on the table and Javert’s own laboured breathing. Valjean was silent, so still he could almost have not been there at all, until there came the whisper of a knife pulled from a sheath.

Javert closed his eyes, ready for the pressure of a blade pushed between his ribs. He had been stabbed before, when he was younger, and had never forgotten the sensation, the tip of the knife that had hurt more than anything else that came after it. Somehow the villain had missed all the important inner workings of Javert’s body but there had been blood, so much blood, blood that smelled like nothing he had ever smelled before or since.

And then – oh God, of course – then Monsieur Madeleine had come, alerted by the other police from the precinct. The mayor had been the one who lifted Javert onto the stretcher, lifted him like he was nothing. Javert had almost opened his mouth, almost forgotten himself and confessed his sin, confessed it so he would not go to his death with such filth concealed in his treacherous heart. He had not, in the end. He’d fainted from the pain, and when he woke Madeleine came once to his side, to check on him, and then no more. 

How ironic it was that the same man who had rushed to his aid then would be the one to end him, so many years later.

Except the ropes binding him to the table tightened as Valjean took hold of them, and they creaked as the knife sawed through them. They fell away and a rough hand gripped his shoulder, pulling Javert to his feet. His legs shook as they took his weight and he was forced to keep his head bent lest the martingale cut him in half. 

“My God, Javert,” Valjean said, and from under his eyelids Javert saw the man looking at him, at his heaving chest and bloody wrists, and could only hope that he did not inspect the rest of his person too closely. “What have they done to you?”

Javert did not answer. 

“Come,” Valjean said, and he took hold of the rope, careful not to pull on it, “Let us go somewhere less public.”

And Javert was led, like a dog, like a beast, out to the alley at the back of the tavern.


	3. Javert, cont'd

Valjean did not pull the martingale roughly, but it was already too late. The mere touch of his hand on the rope sent a wave of fresh heat through Javert, the rough trousers rubbing his prick in new ways as he was led out into the alleyway. He could not believe that Valjean had not noticed the bulge between his legs, not when it felt so large to himself.

The alleyway was blessedly cooler than the tavern had been, the heat of the June day long since bled from the bricks and stones, and it was quieter too. Valjean had brought him here to kill him in peace, it seemed. The students would not want his blood dirtying the floor of their tavern.

Valjean hesitated for a moment before pushing Javert against a wall, one hand still gripping the rope. He still did not look down, and did not acknowledge Javert’s shame. Javert did not know if he ought to be grateful for that small mercy, or if he was beyond gratitude and had simply resigned himself to die in this way, his body beyond his control.

Valjean spoke, finally. “What have they done to you?”

His voice was soft, a whisper almost, and when Javert forced himself to look his jailer in the eye, he could have been looking once more into the face of Monsieur Madeleine. The thought was so ridiculous that he began to laugh.

“Javert! Javert, stop!”

His body, used to command, stopped, and Javert looked down to find that he had been clenching his fists so hard that his palms were dark with blood. 

Valjean reached out to touch them, and Javert jerked back so quickly that he pulled the rope taut once more, and he could not stop the pitiful moan that escaped his throat.

Finally, Valjean seemed to realise the real restrictions of the rope, and a red flush crept up his neck.

“Javert, you are – ah, I did not see. Allow me to –”

“Kill me,” Javert ground out, the first words that came to his mind. “Spare me your pity, and kill me. That is your purpose, is it not?”

His heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he could hear little else, the pulse between his legs a white-hot mass of pain and aching, aching arousal. He could not stand for Valjean to pretend now, to summon the ghost of Monsieur Madeleine and smile sweetly as he slipped the knife between his ribs or sliced it across his throat.

“I am not here to kill you, Javert.”

The words were so unexpected that he was not sure he had heard them at all. Surely it was only Monsieur Madeleine, speaking in his mind. Madeleine had done this over the many years since Montreuil, after all, he had haunted his dreams and waking hours alike. There was no reason he should not come now.

“Make it quick, Valjean. I will not be fooled again.”

“I will not.”

A hand, gentle, came to grasp his chin and tilt his head up. Valjean’s eyes were blue, the bright blue that had once so taken Javert when they belonged to another man, and he could not be sure for a moment who stood before him. Valjean, surely, for Monsieur Madeleine was dead. Yet the hand was gentle, the eyes were blue, and Javert knew nothing except the ache. 

“Do you hear me? I am not who you think I am. You shall be free.”

“You are Jean Valjean,” Javert gasped. “You must be. He is dead.”

“Who is dead?”

“Monsieur Madeleine. He is dead. You have his eyes but he is dead. You stole them, like you stole your entire life.”

Valjean made a low, growling sound and pushed him back against the wall, forcing him up onto his toes. White light flashed before Javert’s eyes. He closed them, his head spinning.

“You do not understand," Valjean said, between his teeth. "You never did. I was always myself. I am no thief, I stole nothing of his.”

“You must have.” Javert could do no more than whisper, swaying on his feet, dimly aware that only the brace of Valjean's body against his was keeping him upright. “Monsieur Madeleine was a good man. He was upright, he kept the law, as you did not. He was a merciful man.”

“I am a merciful man.”

“Then you must have stolen that from him.”

Javert was floating, so far away that he did not at first feel Valjean shift against him, or the hand that slipped from his neck and stroked his hair with something near gentleness. He barely felt the rope go taut as it was cut from his body. He did not hear the martingale fall to the floor, or feel the gentle fingertips that examined the bloody welts on his wrists.

“I am merciful,” a voice whispered, lips pressed to Javert’s ear so he had to strain to hear the words. “A good man.”

At the first tentative brush of fingers across his straining cock, Javert tumbled back to the earth with a gasp. His eyes flew open; he stared, uncomprehending, into the man's determined face.

"Is this the mercy of Madeleine?"

"It is the mercy of Jean Valjean," the man said, softly, as he unfastened Javert's borrowed trousers and took him in hand.

The relief was as acute as it was awful: Javert had to close his eyes again. The sensation of cool air on his feverish prick, the warmth and pressure of Valjean's hand, were at once agonising and wonderful. Here was torment, and Javert was once more fully present in his body for every drop of it: a slave to its hammering pulse and hot, aching need.

He managed, panting viciously, "I don't need this mercy from you. I would rather die." But he knew his body gave the lie to those words, stiffening even more painfully in Valjean's grasp, twisting its limbs viciously against Valjean's bracing bulk, not in an attempt to escape but to press even closer to him.

"Let me help you," Valjean whispered, and a solid arm slid around Javert's shoulders, cradling him almost gently.

Could it be true? Could Jean Valjean have been the same good and merciful man that Madeleine had been? Was this now the charitable act of a good man, a merciful man, taking pity on this sinner?

But this act was far from merciful, this tantalising clasp about his prick, this press of solid, muscled body as they stood chest to chest, so close that he could feel the man's heartbeat through his own ribs. This man might have Madeleine's eyes and Madeleine's soft voice, but it was the merciless hand of Jean Valjean that had taken hold of him and that now started, awkwardly, to stroke. 

It was torment and bliss. Javert had thought the martingale had been tortuous, but it was nothing compared to this. He moaned aloud, barely able to hold himself upright; Valjean had a pistol about his person, and Javert knew he ought to be struggling to seize it or trying to flee, but instead he was too weak to fight against this rush of shameful pleasure. "Why are you doing this?"

The man was silent, and the movements of his hand slowed. Javert waited for him to repeat his previous avowal of goodness and mercy, to claim a charity that Javert could reject with words if not with his traitorous body.

Finally came a most unexpected answer. "Because it is something you want. It was something you wanted in Montreuil."

Javert could not speak for a long moment. Hot shame flooded through him, so much that he thought he might die of it. That the mayor had _known_ \-- of Javert's admiration, of the obscene secret Javert had harboured in his heart for so many years? 

"How could you know?" he whispered at last. His body was shaking; if not for Valjean's bracing arm and breast he would have fallen to the stones.

"How could I not?" Valjean began to caress him again, as gentle as Madeleine's hand had been pressing the rosary into his palm. Once again, Javert remembered walking the streets of Montreuil at Madeleine's side, recalled the mayor coming to his aid after the ruffians had stabbed him and keeping watch at his sickbed. Those kind eyes had looked at him with such understanding that Javert had managed to put aside suspicions of Jean Valjean; such respect that Javert thought himself seen as an equal. Clearly those eyes had seen something more than that.

Was it true, that Madeleine had seen past Javert's concealments, to the vile heart of Javert's obsession -- the quarrel over the prostitute that had filled Javert with jealous rage; the renewals of half-formed suspicions; the wounded pride in his offer of resignation? 

The man said, now, "I saw so many things about you, Inspector."

Javert laughed despairingly. He struck his head backwards against the brick wall, so sharply it made his eyes water. "I suppose you must have. I was such a fool, thinking my shame was hidden. How could anyone not know, indeed."

"There is no shame in it," Valjean said, roughly. He pressed his forehead to Javert's cheek and tightened his arm around Javert's shoulders, as if to stop Javert from striking himself again. 

Javert groaned. "You would say that! The man of mercy, the good man, you think it is what I wish to hear."

"It is the truth," Valjean whispered. "And it was something I could never give you. It would have been a falsehood, an unspeakable abuse."

He paused, and then said, thickly, "But I can give it to you now, now there is no longer any falseness between us."

Valjean began to stroke in earnest, and Javert groaned again. Surely this was no mercy, for it was now too agonising to be merciful. Valjean's hand moved insistently over Javert's swollen member, dragging painfully over the tight sheath of foreskin and the overheated flesh underneath, rubbing him rough and raw. It hurt too much to be endured for long, yet Javert thought he might die if it were to end.

Valjean's thumb tugged over the crown of Javert's prick and his fingers spread the leaking wetness it found there along Javert's length; Valjean's strokes grew smoother and easier, and then became abruptly so pleasurable it brought fresh tears to Javert's eyes.

Javert took a sobbing breath. He could feel his body sagging against Valjean's in surrender, yielding to desire despite himself, spreading his thighs for Valjean's clasp as wantonly as any four-sou prostitute being taken against the wall in a dark alley.

"Oh God," he muttered. Shudders ran through him, as if the brick behind him was crumbling, as if earth and stone were rending themselves apart under his feet. "How can you show such mercy?" 

He did not know what he was saying or whom he was addressing; helplessly, giving himself up to his depravity, he began to thrust into Valjean's fist. 

Valjean stroked him with increasing sureness. His eyelashes brushed against Javert's face, his breath was hot on Javert's cheek. Perhaps he felt himself addressed, or perhaps he felt it was his place to speak for the Almighty. "Not just mercy, or at least not from me. I feared you, in Montreuil, but I admired you as well."

Javert did not understand until Valjean added, his voice hitching, "I knew you wanted this... I did, also."

It was unspeakable. It was vile enough that Javert was depraved enough to desire this, but for Valjean to wish for it too? Surely this was a depth of corruption far beyond the pale of the good, merciful Madeleine, a shame that even Jean Valjean would not stoop to. 

And yet Valjean's breath came in hot gulps; his powerful body strained against Javert's, and Javert became aware of a bulging hardness that pressed against Javert's hip. Was this man so good, so full of mercy, that he would himself be roused by the desires of a sinner who was too weak to resist? 

It was impossible. That Madeleine had admired him then, that Jean Valjean would embrace him, now, and allow him to thrust like a whore into that large hand; impossible that the man would himself be rutting against Javert's thigh, uttering the soft choked gasps of a fugitive accustomed to relieving himself in secret. 

It was impossible, but it was happening. It was horrible, and glorious, excruciating and exquisite. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears, the entire length of his body a white-hot mass of agony and arousal. He heard Valjean make overwhelmed sounds that Madeleine had never uttered; heard the sobbing noises that he himself was making, noises he might make if Valjean had stabbed him and then held him as he was dying.

His body juddered with helpless ecstasy; he saw jagged streaks of brightness as pleasure was wrung from him, and then his world was dismantled from the top to the bottom and came crashing upon him, engulfing everything he had once believed in. 

Dimly, he was aware of his own tears, the same frustrated, furious tears he had wept in Montreuil. This time, however, the hand he had spent his desire over was not his own, but that of Mayor Madeleine, that of the convict Jean Valjean.

Valjean subsided as well; he pressed his sweating forehead against Javert's. They clung together, their breaths coming in shuddering gasps. Javert became aware of the dampness of his clothes and of Valjean's, dampness that was likely not solely due to his own completion. So it seemed Valjean had not lied about his desire, either. It was inexplicable, but there was the evidence, staining Valjean's trousers as well as his flushed cheeks.

Awkwardly, Valjean loosened his grasp on Javert's shoulders and took a half-step away, attempting to re-order the disarray of his clothing. Valean’s support gone, Javert’s legs gave way beneath him and he went to the floor, dimly aware of Valjean following him down. They stared at each other: the hunter who had become the hunted and who had, impossibly, embraced his prey; the vulture forced into the gaze of an eagle; both of them still alive amidst the broken ruins of their old world. 

Javert found he could barely look at the man, the saintly mayor and the even more sainted convict, blue eyes and ruddy face seeming as bright as a new moral sun. 

He was filled with shame, and an awful happiness that made him all the more ashamed. 

Eventually he found his voice. "You might as well have killed me."

"I have already told you that I would not," Valjean said, very gravely. "If, by chance, I am able to leave this place, I live under the name of Fauchelevent in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7."

Javert groaned and pushed himself to his feet, all too aware that the hard wall behind him was the only thing that made it possible to stand. Valjean followed once more, reaching out and rather ineptly attempting to straighten Javert's cravat. Javert stood rooted to the spot, permitting Valjean's touch. "Have a care," he muttered.

Valjean tried to smile. "You should go now, before the others come looking," he said. His fingers ran along the length of Javert's collar, and then brushed across his cheekbone.

It was unendurable. Javert's secrets had been exposed for all the world to see; all law and the entire social order were in ruin at his feet, and this man, this unlikely benefactor, the source of his hidden shame, was looking at him as if a new civilisation had dawned in his eyes. His voice shook as he said, "I would rather that you had killed me."

"Be off with you," Valjean said; he hesitated, and then reached across clumsily to take hold of Javert again.

Javert closed his eyes, and suffered the terrible sweetness of this first kiss. He felt as if something was being torn from his breast, something that would never be returned to him.


	4. Valjean

Valjean woke, as was his habit, with the lark. Toussaint was busy downstairs, preparing the bread for the day, stoking the fires and readying the breakfast. It was almost as though the world had not turned upon its head.

Slowly, for the first movement he made set his shoulders to burning, Valjean sat up. His chamber was in disarray, more so than he had ever allowed it to be, even on the worst of days. It had not been a dream then, the hours before this dawn.

In one corner sat a bucket of water, cold now, and reeking of the sewer, which he had used to clean the muck from his body. In the fireplace lay a pile of ashes, the clothes he had stripped away and burned, certain he would never be able to get them clean enough to wear again. His boots, scrubbed, had been abandoned to dry beneath the window. Had he really much managed such cleanliness in his state of fatigue? He supposed he must have done, despite having no memory of it, for if Cosette or Toussaint had helped him then surely they would be here now, enquiring after him.

Valjean looked at the sunlight falling across the bed; it was early and he could not have slept more than a few hours. His head swam when he moved and his muscles caught alight, aching with tiredness. He should lie down, try to return to his slumber but he could not. Something kept him from his repose, something that had woken him through the fog of exhaustion. It could not be Marius; he did remember that much, dragging the boy from the barricades through the sewers and delivering him to his grandfather's house.

Neither was the cause of his anxiety Cosette, that he had already established. If she was even aware of his late return, she had not emerged from her rooms to question him, all the better for not knowing.

What then? He gazed down at his hands, resting on the blankets, and saw that beneath his nails were rings of rusty red. It looked like blood, but it was not his, and Marius’ had stained his shirt and coat but not his hands. Blood, dark and crusted and – 

_Javert._

He fell back against the pillows, a pain in his chest growing, growing until he realised that he was not breathing. Javert had been at the barricade, imprisoned, and Valjean had freed him. But first…oh God, Javert had been so desperate. A wild look, a glint of light in his dark eyes, and Valjean had given in. He had been weak. He had touched Javert as though he had a right to touch him, as though Javert had been waiting for him and him alone, when truly he had been a prisoner, waiting for nothing but the touch of death.

And he, Jean Valjean, had taken advantage of him. Never in all his years at the bagne, chained like an animal, had he taken advantage of anyone weaker than himself. And Javert had been weaker last night. He’d been tied up for hours, barely able to move his limbs, and Valjean had manhandled him and then – 

But Javert had wanted to be touched. Valjean remembered that look, the rasp of his voice, how he talked of nothing but Madeleine, Madeleine who was the better half of Valjean’s own soul, who was not so entirely different a man as Javert insisted.

Valjean forced some air into his lungs and rose from the bed onto legs that threatened to give beneath him until he schooled them to his will. He opened the door to find that Toussaint had left his customary water outside his door. He brought it in and filled the basin. He had not washed so very long ago but if the blood around his nails was any evidence, he had not done the best job he could. Pulling his nightshirt over his head, he inspected his body in the looking glass, giving only a cursory glance to his face; he could not bear to look himself in the eye.

Aside from the still faint scent of the sewer that clung to him, he found that the rest of his person had been adequately bathed. He set to scrubbing his hands with the coarse soap that he kept hidden in his chamber; Cosette had been insistent that he should switch to an altogether softer floral soap, but it did not do the job he wished for when he had been in the garden, so he kept his old brand for those occasions. It should, with luck, do the same to blood as it did to earth.

When he was sufficiently clean, with only pink skin to show where he had been working at his hands, Valjean turned to his clothing. He had lost few of his own garments to the sewer, dressed as he was in his old uniform of the national service. Only an old shirt had been sacrificed, one that had been in need of mending anyway.

He dressed slowly, listening to the familiar sound of Toussaint’s footsteps down below. Now he was awake, or at least more alert, he could almost believe that had it not been for the blood, he could have convinced himself that those moments with Javert had not happened. The cruellest part of his own mind did not, however, allow him to entertain that thought for long.

 _‘You held him,’_ it whispered; _‘You felt him spend. You now know the sound he makes when he does.’_

 _‘It is no fault of yours,’_ a kinder voice said. _‘You always knew what Javert wanted.’_

Valjean _had_ known it of the inspector, from almost the first moment they had met in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Madeleine had been the man’s idol, his guiding star. Valjean had seen enough of it in the bagne, the relationships that went beyond animal need, the men who loved one another. He had seen it up close, too close, love so strong that he had wondered how such men could even feel it, men who were animals.

He had seen the same things in Javert, had read them on his face, as they shared a brandy in his office or as Javert walked him home late at night. There was a longing there, a warmth in Javert’s eyes that no other person had been granted. Those same eyes had been greedy, when their owner thought that the mayor was not watching him. Valjean had no real faith in the appeal of his own body, even back then, but he supposed that strong shoulders and a gentle hand might be enough to attract the attention of some admirers. He had just never expected one of them to the fearsome, heartless Inspector Javert.

Javert had loved Madeleine, as best as he knew how to love, but Madeleine had only been the name, the disguise. In all the ways that mattered, Madeleine did not exist; he was only a part of Jean Valjean. Javert may have tried to convince himself that he had only loved the mayor, but truly he had loved only Jean Valjean.

The sound of Cosette’s chamber door shook him from his thoughts, and he re-tied his cravat with hurried fingers. It would not do for her to be left unattended for long this morning, not when she had last seen him leave the house into the middle of a battle, an act he had not given her an explanation for. Indeed, as he descended the stairs, he could hear her inquiring of Toussaint.

“I am here, my dear; quite well,” he said, hurrying into the dining room. “I returned late so I did not want to disturb you.”

“Papa!” Cosette threw herself at him, just as she had when she was a little girl and, for a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that she was just that, that the pair of them would be able to live their time together again.

“Papa,” she said again, pulling away to look him in the eye. “Tell me all of it. What did you see on the streets last night?”

They took their places at the table, Toussaint hovering with the coffee, and Valjean wondered how to even begin explaining what had happened to a girl who had never known a moment of rage or hate, despite the life he had rescued her from.

“Oh, my dear,” he said. “Many young men died for their cause.”

“Oh!” she gasped, hand clasped to her mouth, and he realised the error he had made. How careless of him! How tired he was, how distracted. He could not bear the tears that threatened in her eyes. He would even speak true, to never see them fall.

“Cosette – child –”

“Forgive me, Papa.” She shook her head. “Only I –”

“I know, Cosette. About Monsieur Pontmercy.”

She could not speak and the clatter of plates behind him suggested that Toussaint had long been privy to a secret he had only yesterday learned.

“He is alive,” Valjean said. “Or he was, early this morning. I made enquiries on your behalf.”

Cosette burst into tears anyway and slid from her chair to kneel at his side. Her tears soaked the front of his waistcoat, and he petted her hair helplessly. She had cried so few times in their life together that he hardly knew what to do.

“Do not weep,” he said, and was startled when she laughed. “Why-”

“I am happy, Papa! Happy to no longer keep this secret. Happy that he lives yet. Happy that you approve of him, or you would not have sought him out.”

It was a bemusing thing, but when she rose to kiss his face, Valjean found that he did not mind her tears so much.

“Papa, please excuse me,” she said, “But I must go and write a letter to be delivered to him this morning. He must know I wait for him!”

“Write it now,” Valjean said, “And I shall deliver it myself.”

She left the room in a burst of energy, and once Toussaint had served him, he was left alone with the newspaper and his breakfast.

He tried to eat but found he had little appetite, the newspaper and its bloody images surely partly to blame. He tried not to think of the other reason, the echo of Javert’s voice that rang in his ears now Cosette was not there to drown it out. He would take to the streets to deliver her letter, that much was sure, but he would also go out for his own singular reason.

He had to find Javert.


	5. Valjean, cont'd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette’s famous [1789 Declaration](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Declaration_of_the_Rights_of_Man_and_of_the_Citizen) was an important constitutional document in widespread circulation during Javert’s life, describing the fundamental characteristics of the natural and imprescriptible rights of man, including that the law should establish only penalties that are _“strictly and evidently necessary”_ (Art VIII) and that any man ought to be _”presumed innocent until he is declared culpable”_ (Art IX).
> 
> The game of _Pile-face_ (“Heads or Tails”) detailed in this chapter is described in Charles Jeanne’s letter to his sister [here](http://chanvrerie.net/history/june-1832/charles-jeanne-8-en/).

_He had to find Javert._

Valjean strode rapidly up the Rue de l’Homme Armé, in the direction of the Gillenormand house at No. 6 Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Cosette's letter burned indistinctly in the pocket of his summer coat, full of her innocent hopes and desires.

Something else far less innocent burned even more hotly beneath his own breast. 

Valjean was well aware of what he had permitted himself to do with Javert; he was still unsure as to why he had permitted it. After the barricades, he had once again encountered Javert in the sewers that night, as if his life was tied to Javert's so inextricably that they were drawn inexorably together time and again. Javert had summoned a carriage and helped him convey Marius to the Gillenormand house, had ridden back in silence to Rue de l’Homme Armé without seeking to touch him or to arrest him, and then he had disappeared into the night as if he had never been there. 

It was all bewildering, and Valjean could barely believe all that had occurred, let alone make any actual sense of what had happened. His head was filled with gnawing confusion. He could only imagine how Javert himself must feel this morning now everything was likely to be finally sinking in. 

But first, Cosette's mission. Valjean directed his steps toward the venerable Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire and had soon fetched upon the polished doorstep of No. 6, where not twelve hours before he and Javert had stood, holding the Pontmercy boy between them.

He was received this morning at the door by the porter, who offered to show him into the drawing room. Valjean demurred; he ought not trespass on the Gillenormand household for longer than was needful. 

"M. le Baron is still gravely unwell, Monsieur, but the physician has just visited and assured us that he will recover. Thanks be to God!"

"Thanks be to God, indeed," Valjean said. So it seemed Cosette's paramour would live. He was not sure if the flood of emotion he was experiencing was disappointment or relief. 

He handed over Cosette's letter to the porter, and took his leave of No. 6. Now for something else which might bring more than either disappointment or relief.

Javert lived along Rue des Vertus; Valjean remembered asking him the night before, as the carriage rattled down the old street of Rue des Blancs-Manteaux. It took a short time to walk there from Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. This morning, the Marais district had seemed untouched by the past days of violence, the good citizens having stayed fearfully in their beds behind their locked doors and iron gates, but as he passed once more into the Rue du Temple, Valjean could see signs of the insurgency in the streets: smashed windows and public property and discarded pieces of furniture. Though it was not early, there were few passers-by on the streets, and those few hurried past with their heads bowed, as if fleeing from some pursuit.

Javert's portress at No. 55 told him that the inspector was not in residence. "M. l'Inspecteur leaves early, Monsieur," she said, shrugging. "And now with all this fighting, probably he was needed at the station-house at daybreak. Come to think of it, I'm not sure if he even came home last night, at that." 

For five sous, she allowed Valjean to see for himself.

Javert's apartment was spartan and meagrely furnished, no mementos or keepsakes upon its bare shelves. The neatly-made bed did not look slept in. Valjean examined the books beside the candle on the bedside table: underneath a Bible, there was the pamphlet containing Lafayette's well-known 1789 _Déclaration des droits de l'homme et du citoyen_ , which described the fundamental characteristics of men’s natural and unalienable rights as being _liberty, property, security and resistance to oppression_.

Valjean did not know why he tarried, nor what he expected to see. Perhaps he hoped to find something that might give him a glimpse into the thoughts of that single-minded man who had pursued Jean Valjean so relentlessly and who had admired Madeleine so recklessly? Who had yesterday embraced both Madeleine and Jean Valjean for the first time, and had then held his hand back from arresting them both?

There was no sign -- no convenient note addressed to Valjean, nor an uncharacteristic mess indicating a late-night struggle with his soul -- no clue at all as to what Javert might have been experiencing. Valjean sighed, and left the apartment none the wiser.

Despite his confused state, Valjean was not about to risk calling upon the station-house in the Pontoise district to inquire after Inspector Javert. Instead, he left word with the portress that he would return in the evening, and then slowly walked back toward the Rue de l’Homme Armé. 

It would be a simple matter to return to No. 7 and the bosom of his family. Cosette would be awaiting news of her young man, and Toussaint would prepare him a simple midday meal. 

Yet Valjean's disquiet led him to eschew these simple pleasures. He was not hungry -- he found his body's needs easier and easier to ignore -- and he was in no rush to relinquish the heart of his beloved daughter to the love of the Baron Pontmercy.

In lieu of luncheon, he took a cup of coffee at a cafe along the Rue Sainte-Croix de la Brettonnerie, which was also unusually deserted for this hour of the day, and pondered the vexing question of Inspector Javert.

So he had known how Javert had loved Madeleine, at least as best as he knew how to love. It seemed he should examine more clearly the extent to which that feeling was reciprocated. Jean Valjean may have been afraid of the fearsome inspector, might have sought ways and means of escaping his notice, but Madeleine had not stinted from admiring the man in turn. 

Had it been wrong to permit himself to enjoy the inspector's company, when he was in truth deceiving the man by donning the mayor's guise? 

In Montreuil, Madeleine had justified his actions by telling himself he had merely been trying to reach out to the good inspector. Javert's motives had always been irreproachable; he had been entirely devoted to his duties and the well-being of the town. Surely such a diligent police officer, this selfless public servant, could be eventually convinced that justice and mercy walked hand in hand, that doing good sometimes required more than a slavish adherence to the letter of the law? 

He had been wrong, of course. It had been wrong for Madeleine to have encouraged Javert's admiration, obtained as it were under false pretences. It had been even worse in light of Madeleine's own feelings. 

Madeleine had been a disguise, a deception; he had no business returning anyone's attentions when this would have been a tremendous breach of trust.

And yet it seemed Madeleine had indeed been swayed by Javert's unstinting admiration. Out of all the citizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer, he had somehow developed a compulsion toward the man who had sworn to hunt him down. 

For the first four decades years of his life, Jean Valjean had never known a woman's loving touch -- something that nineteen years in Toulon had stolen from him -- and this perhaps had led Madeleine to prefer the company of men. Worse, perhaps he had been so broken by the bagne and his years on the run that Jean Valjean had been inexorably drawn toward the one man he could never have. 

He had not wanted to admit this to himself, but after the events of the past day this could no longer be avoided. Javert had admired Madeleine, had in truth admired Jean Valjean, and it seemed Valjean had wrongly permitted himself to return those feelings.

But was this still wrong? Now the disguise of Madeleine was gone, and Javert had seen the truth of him face to face -- Javert, the only soul on earth who knew who Jean Valjean truly was. Had it been wrong to try to give Javert some relief at the barricades, when the man was in such extremity? Was it wrong to finally permit himself to help Javert, to touch Javert in the way Javert had wanted? In the way that they had both wanted?

Valjean did not know the answer to this. He hoped it was not wrong, but rather thought it might be nonetheless. He stared at his hands, large and roughened from years of toil, folded around the fragile rim of his coffee cup.

_Lord, convict me of my sins, and if I have indeed sinned against You and against Javert, please forgive me._

_Please forgive us both._

Valjean shivered, although the sun was now high in the sky and the June day had become very warm. He left some coins on the side of his plate, put on his coat, and crossed the street toward the Rue de Chaume.

This road bore signs of the past days' violence. As he walked down the street toward the Rue de la Verrerie and then the Rue des Arcis he passed men and women with pinched, harrassed faces, debris littering the pathway, remnants of broken furniture and rubble that had been pushed to the sides of the road. 

After some time, he came upon the Cloître St Méry, which he remembered hearing talk about having been the centre of fierce fighting. He could see the remaining structures of the massive barricade that had been erected there. Public servants were in the midst of dismantling the furniture and wooden slats with ropes and equipment; some had rough brooms and pails and were scrubbing at dark pools of what appeared to be blood on the stones of the street.

"What has happened here?" Valjean murmured to a woman who had paused to watch.

She glanced warily at him, taking in his attire and genteel accent. She was dressed in the cheap clothing of a tradeswoman, carrying a basket over one arm, and her eyes were red-rimmed. "You did not hear of it, Monsieur?"

"I was at the Chanvrerie yesterday," he said, and watched her expression soften.

"Ah, it was terrible! The National Guard were less than human, the boys here were outgunned and overmatched. And when the fighting was over... Monsieur, I can hardly bring myself to describe it." 

She drew her shawl over her shoulders with her free hand. "It was here, as well as at Rue Saint Martin. They cleared the corpses of those poor boys by throwing them out of the window onto the street. They would shout _"Pile-face?"_ and depending on what the others would reply, out the body would come head- or feet-first, to burst upon the stones."

Valjean felt sick to his stomach. "How horrible," he said. 

Had Javert's men played this game with those poor doomed boys at the Corinthe? Had Enjolras' corpse been thrown head-first out of the window, or Feuilly's, or Combeferre's? Would this have been Marius' fate, had he not intervened? 

Would Javert have taken part in this wanton cruelty?

"Aye," the woman said shortly. "But not unexpected. There's no justice or mercy in this world, at least not for the likes of us. Nobody told that to those boys, but they ought to have known it anyway."

She shook her head, grimly, shouldered her basket, and went on her way. 

His heart heavy, Valjean continued in the opposite direction, past the people who had been tasked to clean up the signs of violence and those who were there to bear witness. 

He turned right into Rue de la Verrerie. It seemed his feet were leading him towards the Ile de la Cité, towards the Seine. The sun was sweltering as he crossed the Rue des Arcis into the Rue des Lombards.

Turning left into the Rue St Denis brought him onto the Place de Châtelet, where the first revolutions had brought down the monarchy, and had heralded years of more blood and cruelty.

From the Place de Châtelet, he could see the river, and beyond it, the Cité. He could hear the faint sounds from the bell tower of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame, tolling upon the hour of the afternoon. 

Here the lifeblood of the city had begun to flow once more: the carts and carriages, citizens and merchants, crossing the Pont au Change toward the Cité and those returning, running errands, on envoys of trade and commerce, and merely going about their business.

Valjean joined the scores of pedestrians traversing the stones of the bridge. In the distance, the grand walls of the Palais du Justice loomed under the blue afternoon sky, the unmistakable facade of the Quai Desaix and its famous horloge.

Below the bridge, the Seine was always unquiet, driven to a frenzy by the large water pump beside the Pont Notre Dame upstream. Today, glancing over the side of the bridge, Valjean fancied it seemed even more turbulent than usual. He could see the commercial boats that traversed the length of the Seine straining against the current as they made their way beneath the Pont au Change. The bateaux-lavoirs that were moored on both banks of the river, lining the Quai de la Megisserie as well as the Quai Desaix, were being buffetted from side to side in the churning water.

As Valjean stepped off the Pont au Change onto the Quai Desaix, he witnessed a small commotion amongst the bateaux-lavoirs along the quay. 

It seemed a police boat was attempting to moor alongside one of them in order to drag something from the water.


	6. Richard, cont'd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barricade Day's over, and our first Barricade day fic is complete! We had a lot of fun writing this appropriately-themed story with each other, and sharing this with you ;)

It had been a long day and, truth be told, a longer night. Richard did not think he had slept more than an hour or two, the faces of the people who had crossed his table fresh in his mind, murdered rebels and soldiers alike. They had been too young, each and every one. 

Richard rose with the sun on the second day, to a city that was quieter than it had been the morning before, too early even for the newspapers. He washed in cold water and dressed quickly, intent on escaping the house before the others woke. There was much to be done at the morgue, too much still to be done, and perhaps if he could complete his work and help more of those people in his care to move on, he would be able to sleep better tonight.

More importantly, Richard could not bear to face Andre or Henning; Andre’s careful indifference would surely only enrage him, and Henning’s worried solemnity was too intense, far too pressing. 

With a heavy heart, he crept down the stairs so that Madame would not catch him, and was soon safely out on the street and away to his work before the smell of the fresh bread baking in the kitchen could entice him back.

The same doorman from the previous morning was at his post again, probably cursing his run of bad luck in having the night shifts this week. He was engaged with a pair of uniformed police officers when Richard arrived, signing them out of the building. Richard waited patiently for the man’s attention; he could have just gone in as his face was known, but he had something he wished to discuss with the man.

“Good morning, monsieur,” the doorman turned when, finally, the policemen had moved on. “It is early for you to be here.”

“I did not sleep well,” Richard confessed. “I thought that I might as well be here, doing something that is helpful.”

“Been a quiet night, mostly,” the man said, planting himself wearily on his stool once more. “Back to normal, save the fact that your rooms are full.”

“Well, I hope that those in the viewing gallery shall be identified today, at least,” Richard leaned on the desk. “Any word on the inspector?”

  
  


Yesterday afternoon, there had been a commotion outside of Richard’s workroom door, and he had opened it to find Monsieur Laurent and some police officers supporting a stretcher between them. An older man, white-haired and finely if simply dressed, had been with them, his face grey and eyes downcast. 

“Make room in here,” Laurent swept into the room. “First Class Inspector Javert, of the police, pulled from the river this very hour.”

The police had been silent as they carried the man in and placed him on the floor, as all of the tables were full. 

Monsieur Laurent had turned to the white-haired man and nodded his head, “We thank you, Monsieur Fauchelevent, for your assistance. If not for you we would have been chasing his superiors all day.”

  
  


“No one been in for him,” the doorman shrugged now. “Odd, I suppose, cause he’s one of them but then he did do it to himself, didn’t he? Maybe they’ll turn up today.”

Only no one from the police did appear for the inspector, at least not by eight o’clock in the morning.

Richard had worked for an hour or so and was considering slipping out for some coffee. Being back at his post had settled him down, and he felt more like his old self. He went out to the foyer, which was still mostly empty and likely to remain that way until nine when the official day began. 

The doorman was flicking through a newspaper that must have been brought to him, and there, in the corner, was the white-haired man. Richard remembered his fine waistcoat and the slight hunch of his shoulders. 

The man looked up when he heard Richard’s footsteps and must have, in turn, recognised his face, for he got to his feet and came to meet him.

“Monsieur…”

“Fauchelevent,” the man supplied. “My name is Fauchelevent.”

“I am Richard Hugo,” Richard said. “I am an assistant here.”

“Yes, I saw you yesterday.”

Monsieur Fauchelevent’s face was drawn and his eyes swollen and tired. Here was a man who had not slept for many hours, and his hands trembled when he brought them up to anchor on his coat’s lapels. 

“Why are you here, monsieur?” Richard said gently, bending to pick up the cane that the man had dropped under his seat. “It is very early. Monsieur Laurent will be here in an hour if you –”

“I wish to see him,” Fauchelevent spoke loudly, and then lowered his voice when the doorman looked over at them. “The inspector. Please. I must see him.”

“Monsieur.” Richard handed him his cane, allowing his hand to rest on the man’s wrist. “I am sorry, but I cannot allow -”

“Please.” Fauchelevent was not a tall man and he had to tilt his head slightly to look Richard in the eye. There was a wildness there, a wildness that did not sit well with the fineness of his clothes or the softness of his voice. Who was this man? 

“I only need a few minutes,” Fauchelevent tried again. “I have – I brought a ribbon for his hair. The inspector is – was – quite particular about his hair.”

Richard found his own wrist encircled by the man’s hand. He did not know what to do. Monsieur Laurent would not accept this excuse for breaking the rules. But there was something so very sincere about this man, and Richard found he did not have the heart to deny his request. It could be quick, they would be in and out before Monsieur Laurent even arrived for the day, and no one would know. Perhaps this could be his own little rebellion, in fulfilling an old man's harmless wish that would otherwise be denied to him. It was not much, but it would have to do.

“Come with me,” he said, turning on his heel and heading back into the building. The doorman winked when Richard nodded at him, a worthy ally, and Richard made a note to ensure the man was well supplied with coffee and pastries for the next week or so. 

Fauchelevent followed him silently, light on his feet, and the only sound he made was a small, sharp intake of breath when Richard pulled the sheet back from Inspector Javert’s face. 

The inspector had yet to be attended to properly, but the blood that had covered his face from the cut on his forehead from the night before had at least been cleaned away. Fauchelevent stared at him, remaining for so long unspeaking, that Richard began to fear that this would take too long, and they would be caught. 

“Please, monsieur, we do not have much time,” Richard said, reaching out to but not quite touching the man between them. 

Fauchelevent hesitated for a moment longer, before shrugging out of his coat and laying it carefully across the empty chair in the corner. He did not hesitate any longer, unbuttoning his cuffs and folding the sleeves of his shirt to just over his wrists. It was as though, now he had finally begun, nothing would stop him from completing his task.

Richard turned his back, trying to give Fauchelevent some privacy, but there was little to do in this room. He dared not leave the man alone, not if he did not want both of them to be caught, and so he was trapped. 

He half-wished Fauchelevent had not asked for permission to touch the inspector; he could quite easily have told Monsieur Laurent that he had taken it upon himself to fix the body’s hair. No man with hair of that sort would have wanted to be sent to his rest with his head a mess; Fauchelevent had not really needed to mention the inspector's special disposition for looking neat and tidy.

No matter, Richard thought, they were here now and it was too late to halt. Fauchelevent, his cuffs rolled to his liking, picked up his coat once more and removed a comb from one pocket and a length of black ribbon from the other.

He approached the body, as he had done earlier, and Richard saw he was now avoiding looking into its face. For want of diversion, Richard allowed himself to inspect every inch of this policeman’s aspect, which he had before then been too busy to pay much attention to. 

Inspector Javert had not been a handsome man, that much was clear even at a cursory glance. His brow was heavy, lined with age and worry. A nose that was too large sat upon a swarthy face, darker than many persons who called Paris their home. His hair, longer than the fashion dictated, was grey with streaks of a finer silver at his ears and temples. His lips were mottled and blue, the colour of those unfortunate souls who had been pulled from the bottom of the Seine.

It was this man who Monsieur Fauchelevent looked upon now, as though he could see something there far beyond Richard’s gaze. He probably could; whatever the inspector had been, Fauchelevent was mourning for him now, fearsome face or not.

“Did - did you know him well, monsieur?”

He had not intended to speak, but Fauchelevent had not moved for many minutes, comb and ribbon clutched in his hands.

“For many years,” he answered. “I have known him for many years.”

It was not an answer, not really, but Richard held his peace. First class inspectors were not a breed known for taking their own lives, so the man’s death was odd enough. Richard was not about to add to the strangeness of the day by questioning the inspector's friend.

Finally, slowly, Fauchelevent lowered the comb to the inspector’s hair, and began to tease out the tangles at its end. He would need help when it came to the back of the head, but for now Richard was happy to allow him this time. Grieving friends did not visit the morgue and ask to fix the deceased’s hair. They simply did not. Only two types of people had such requests; mothers and lovers. The thought struck Richard like lightning and for a moment he could not breathe. Fauchelevent was, undoubtedly, nobody’s mother.

It would perhaps explain things if these suspicions were correct. Fauchelevent did look like a man who’d had his world swept away from beneath him. Richard thought of Henning, of how he would react if something were to happen to Andre, and he thought of Andre, who could be so callous with one breath and so tender with the next.

“Could I have your assistance, monsieur?” Fauchelevent was looking at him, thankfully too engaged in his task and too wrapped up in his grief to notice that Richard’s face must have changed. “I cannot turn him and –”

“Of course.”

Richard went to the task at hand, bracing himself against the edge of the bed and holding tightly to the inspector’s shoulders as he turned him on his side. Inspector Javert was tall and wide at the shoulders, but he did not weigh as much as Richard was expecting him to. 

He could not help but watch as Fauchelevent finished his combing and took up the ribbon. Gently, he gathered the policeman’s hair into an orderly queue, and if his hands lingered a little longer than was necessary to complete the task, Richard did not remark upon it. 

“It is done,” Fauchelevent whispered, and Richard rolled the inspector onto his back. He did look immediately better for having his hair tidied, and Fauchelevent had even taken the comb to his sideburns, so that they enjoyed the same neatness. 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke and then, as though he did not even care to conceal his thoughts any longer, Fauchelevent reached out and brushed a tentative finger over the inspector’s cold lips. A shudder went through him and he turned as though to run. Too late, he must have realised what he had revealed. 

“I must go. I thank you, monsieur, for the gift you have given me, and -–”

“A moment longer, monsieur!” Richard hurried to the cabinet in the corner of the room. He did not know what fancy drove him, aside from the sight of the tears glistening in the old man's eyes, or how he was moved by the idea that someone had loved this fierce-looking policeman, but he knew what he must do, before it was too late. 

He had found it yesterday, a rosary, clutched in the inspector’s dead hand, a token he had not loosened his grip upon even in the torrent of the river. The beads were worn, so old and smooth that they seemed barely strong enough to support the crucifix that adorned it. 

No one else had seen the rosary. Thomas had been occupied elsewhere when Richard had eased open the man’s hand to find it, and he had not yet noted this item in the list of the inspector’s belongings. If this trinket meant something to the inspector, perhaps it would give Monsieur Fauchelevent, whoever and whatever he was, some peace or at least a little comfort.

“Here, monsieur,” Richard said, placing the rosary into the man’s hand. “I found this on the inspector, held tightly in his hand. He must have been holding it close when – when he –”

He trailed off; Fauchelevent was cradling the rosary like it was the most delicate of treasures. He stroked the beads with a fingertip, and when he looked up, he was weeping openly, tears falling in silent rivulets down his weathered cheeks.

“He kept it,” he mumbled, “for all those years.”

“It was important to him, monsieur.”

“And he was holding it, so – perhaps he forgave me, at the end.”

“Perhaps,” Richard said, although he did not know of that which the man spoke. 

A sob shook the old man’s shoulders. Then he straightened up and put out his hand. “I thank you, monsieur. You cannot know the kindness you have done me this morning. I would – if you could keep my visit to yourself?”

“I shall. Goodbye, monsieur. I shall take good care of him, rest assured.”

Fauchelevent nodded and fled from the room. He turned in the correct direction so Richard did not need to follow him; it would be cruel, when he was in such a state of distress, to subject him any further to talk or niceties.

Instead, Richard turned to look at the man on the slab. Inspector Javert. No doubt he had been involved somehow in the deaths of many of the rebels who had come to the morgue with him, and perhaps Richard should hate him for that. Then again, it had been such a strange morning, full of such strange revelations, that perhaps he should not be so quick to condemn. Whatever story this man had, it seemed to be a complicated one, painful even, and Richard’s heart was full for him, just as it was for the young rebels. 

It would not do to ever forget that there was always another story to be told.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to our lovely beta, esteven, for a very speedy beta (especially when Sir Bedevere wasn't sure it was all going to be finished in time!)


End file.
